Bittersweet Ghost
by Shipperwolf
Summary: Michael escapes Sona and goes to Sara, whom he needs to heal his heart and soul after doing something that has nearly killed him inside.


I have prepared a nice, sad, romantic, angsty lil M/S ficcy for yous! Plz R&R : but be forwarned: i've received a few flames, and do NOT appreciate them. Please be nice.

I own naught. .

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He stood in the doorway, seeing her before she saw him.

It had been five long weeks.

The bruises were just now fading from his body, reminding him of the dozens of violent convicts he and Mahone had defended themselves against, in order to 'gain respect'.

To survive, was more the truth.

He would not tell her that he had killed some of them.

She would not know that he had taken lives to save his own.

Just to see her.

Just to be with her again.

He would not let her see the haunted glaze that he could literally feel on his eyes.

"Sara." Her head snapped up from the coffee cup she had been staring into.

He watched her deep brown eyes widen, her unpainted lips part in disbelief.

She stood slowly from her curled position on the couch, moving cautiously, like she feared he would run or disappear if she moved too quickly.

He should have stepped forward then, taken her in his arms and held her; kissed her until breath was a lost memory to them both.

But he did not.

"My God….Michael?" Her voice made his ears tingle and his heart clench.

She spoke but did not stray from where she had stood.

She was waiting for him to confirm his existence in her apartment.

He found his feet would not listen to his commands, to his desires, to his mind shouting in desperation to move forward and go to her.

Michael was frozen.

The memories of Sona held him in place, taunting him, asking him if he deserved to be in her presence.

He was as a ghost of his former self, and yet, simultaneously, more than what he had once been.

He remained a genius, remained a man gifted and cursed with the eyesight of a god, remained clever and bold and loyal, remained so much in love that it ate away at his mind and heart and soul.

But now he was also a murderer, and that title, that truth, made him more and less of a man at the very same time.

And for the first moment in his life, he wondered if he was enough of a man to be worthy enough to stand in same room as the woman he loved.

The woman he had killed for.

"Sara…" His voice sounded so far away, even to him. "Where's Lincoln?"

He saw her smile, and knew that she was happy just to hear him speak.

"The apartment below mine. He wanted to stay close to Sona, you….and me. Just in case."

He nodded. He remembered passing the door downstairs, directly underneath his feet. Apartment 112.

He would knock on the door and watch his brother tackle him in joy later.

Sara was moving now.

Her steps were slow, calculated. Feet moved around the coffee table in front of the couch, coming to rest at his own.

She raised a hand to his face, but did not make contact.

"Michael, Sona….how?"

Blood, anger, desperation. The three combined into a dark pit in his mind, where he swore it would remain.

He allowed his face to lower into her hand, relishing the cool feeling of her fingers on his cheek. Her thumb rubbed the stubbly beard that had grown in lack of a razor.

His eyes bore into hers, and he knew well that she could see the haunting emotions he was trying to shut away in order to protect her.

"You don't want to know, Sara. Please…don't ask me to tell you."

Relief hit him as he saw and felt her head nod.

"Okay."

She looked at him, a small smile still adorning her pale features.

She did not appear sick, but it seemed she had been spending her days sans makeup, pro-comfort.

And he found it undeniably beautiful.

"Tell me something Sara," her eyes sharpened in attention at his inquiry, "your father's friend….do you think he could still help us?"

Momentary confusion answered him, until she remembered what he was talking about and realized exactly what he was asking.

"I think so. Why….do you think he won't be able to?"

He didn't think, he knew.

It would take a miracle now to give him the same kind of freedom she and his brother had attained.

"I don't know. We'll talk about it later."

Another nod.

Sara released his face, reaching down to grasp his hand.

"You look exhausted. Come on."

Without the energy or will to deny her, Michael allowed himself to be guided across the threshold of her living room, down a dim hallway, into the darkness of a bedroom.

Blue curtains blocked the setting sun outside, reducing her bed and dresser to black blotches on a shadow-canvas.

In any other situation Michael knew he would have walked through her door smiling from ear-to-ear, taking her in a bear hug and laughing with joy and relief at being reunited with his love.

But this was not any other situation.

It was quiet and somber.

He had done terrible things to get to her, and although he had not told her this, he knew she could feel it.

And so they did not laugh.

They did not smile.

Their joy would come with the rising sun in the morning hours.

Tonight, as the ball of fire that warmed the earth and brought her light sank beneath the trees outside, they were content to simply be.

To exist together in silent understanding.

Sara pulled him down onto the bed with her, meeting him with a whisper of a kiss when he came close to her face.

He could not help but grin slightly at the contact.

Sara had always been capable of healing him.

The scar on his back reminded him of all the times she had done so.

But they had been physical wounds.

Sara would soon learn of the holes and gashes that bled his soul.

He had faith, however, that she could heal those as well.

It was the only thing he had faith in now.

Michael sank into the sheets of Sara's bed, wrapped in the soft comfort of her arms, gazing lazily at the face of his angel of hope.

His eyes closed.

And the memories of the past five weeks were replaced by the feel of warm lips pressing solace onto his forehead.


End file.
